


Half-Engraved

by stoplightglow



Series: Circuit 'verse [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Motorcycles, Prequel, Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24322819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow
Summary: 2012. Pete Wentz is new in town, and he needs someone to fix his motorcycle.
Relationships: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Series: Circuit 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755916
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75





	Half-Engraved

**Author's Note:**

> bet you weren't expecting a continuation of this 'verse. surprise! we recently reached the timeline the circuit is set in, which is crazy because i wrote the first draft over two years ago. i've been trying to branch out and write new pairings, so this happened.
> 
> also! i recently started using [tumblr](https://stoplightglow.tumblr.com/) because i realized it's not quite as scary as i thought, so if you want to talk about fic/2000s scene culture/joan jett/poetry, feel free to say hello!
> 
> thanks to nat for beta. please enjoy.

Pete stops his motorcycle and pulls his helmet off, squinting at the house in front of him. Even without his scratched visor in the way, the scene doesn’t make any sense. He can’t possibly be in the right place.

The guy at the parts shop told him that the best mechanic in town was at Mikey’s Garage, but what he’s looking at isn’t a garage. Well, it is a  _ garage, _ but it’s not an  _ auto shop. _ It’s a two-car model attached to a dingy house in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Which doesn’t make any  _ sense. _

He checks the address scribbled across the back of his hand and the numbers on the mailbox to confirm that they match. Somehow, they do. Maybe he wrote it down wrong. Or maybe that cashier was just a dick who gets off on sending out-of-towners on wild goose chases.

Pete is in the middle of deciding who to be mad at when the garage door lifts with a loud, metallic groan. A guy ducks under the rising door and strides down the driveway. He looks to be around Pete’s age, but taller and more angular, his t-shirt wearing him instead of the other way around. His hair’s as much of a rat’s nest as Pete’s, though, tangled and dirty blonde.

The dude stops a few paces from Pete and shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hitching up towards his ears. “Can I help you?”

“Um.” Pete hesitates, unsure. But that’s not him, he always knows what to say — except for when he accidentally ends up outside the house of an attractive stranger, apparently. “Yeah, I was just looking for Mikey’s Garage. I think I got the wrong address, though.”

“You didn’t.” The guy shakes his head and sticks out a hand. Pete has to get off his bike and step forward to take it, leaving his helmet behind on the seat. “I’m Mikey. That’s my garage.” He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder back towards the open mouth of it, which Pete can now see contains a workbench, an old TV, and several motorcycles.

“Your garage?” Pete can’t help the skepticism in his voice. “But you’re like—” He cuts himself off before he can guess and potentially make an ass of himself.

“Sixteen,” the guy — Mikey — says coolly. Jesus Christ, a year younger than Pete, and definitely too young to be a trained mechanic. “But if you’re here, it’s because you’ve already heard I’m the best, right?”

“Yeah, actually,” says Pete, surprised. “You live up to it?”

Mikey looks at him shrewdly. “What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Pete?”

“Pete Wentz.” For an indulgent second, Pete wonders if Mikey’s eyes will light up in recognition of his name, but they don’t. He’s too far from home now for anyone to know him.

“Okay, Pete Wentz.” Mikey shifts his eyes over to Pete’s motorcycle. Pete looks at it too, so beautiful with the new dark purple paint. “What’ve you got here, a Suzuki V-Strom? Twenty-ten?”

“Twenty-eleven,” corrects Pete.

“Doesn’t really look that different,” Mikey mutters. “Are they making them that color now, or is that custom?”

“Custom,” Pete says, more than a little proud. Mikey’s expression reveals no opinion on it, though. Pete doesn’t let himself take that personally.

“Okay.” Mikey’s gaze meets Pete’s again. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Just needs a tune up.” Pete reaches back to pat the bike’s frame. “She was in the back of a U-Haul all the way from Chicago to here, and all that bumping around couldn’t have been good. And I’m overdue, anyway.”

“Chicago,” repeats Mikey, and for a second he almost sounds interested. Then his tone flattens back out. “Alright, come on. I’ve got time today.”

Shifting his bike into neutral, Pete follows Mikey up the driveway. Inside the garage is stuffy, hotter than the May breeze outside. Pete feels beads of sweat start to form on his back.

Mikey takes Pete’s bike from him and guides it carefully around the half-gutted Kawasaki on the right and his workbench on the left. He sets up Pete’s Suzuki on a stand a few feet in front of two motorcycles pushed against the back wall of the garage, a cherry red Harley and a bright yellow Yamaha. The Harley looks like it’s made for cruising, but the yellow monster — built like one big brushstroke, sleek as hell — that one could do some damage.

“These both yours?” Pete asks as Mikey bends down to check his tires.

“The Yamaha is.” Mikey hums and clicks his tongue before moving to the back tire. Pete waits, but he doesn’t finish the thought.

“And the other one?”

Before he answers, Mikey walks to his workbench and comes back with a tool bucket in one hand and a container of brake fluid in the other. “My brother’s. He leaves town a lot, so I take care of her while he’s gone.”

“He doesn’t ride out of town?”

Mikey makes a funny little noise that Pete doesn’t know how to interpret. “No, no. He does.”

Pete gets the distinct feeling that he’s the butt of a joke, even though Mikey isn’t laughing. He looks away from Mikey and folds his arms, eyes landing on the dusty TV in the corner. The Circuit’s on, which is absolutely no surprise. It’s muted, but Pete watches as the cameras follow Suzy Exposito and Billie Joe Armstrong as they tussle for fourth place. They’re neck and neck, practically pressed together, until Exposito plays it risky on a turn and speeds ahead. Pete hisses in air between his teeth. “Damn. Did you see that?”

“Kinda busy,” says Mikey, the words punctuated by a metallic clang.

“Exposito just totally smoked Armstrong,” Pete says, a little bit of wonder in his voice. “Man, stuff like that never happens in the minor leagues.”

Mikey actually stops what he’s doing and looks up at Pete. A wrench balances in the valley between his forefinger and thumb. “You think that’s hot shit?”

Pete stares at him for a second. “I mean, it’s the  _ Circuit.” _

“Yeah, sure.” Blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes, Mikey gets back to it. 

“What do you mean, sure?” People don’t usually get under Pete’s skin, okay, but Pete doesn’t like Mikey’s tone. Mikey’s obviously into motorcycles; he should know that the very best guys like them could ever hope for is a spot on the Circuit.

“I’m just saying.” Mikey shrugs as he twists a set of needlenose pliers, entirely blasé. “If that’s your standard for a great race, you should come see what’s going down on the Turnpike tonight after dark.”

“What’s going on at the Turnpike?” Having to ask makes Pete feel like such a fucking new guy.

“A great race,” Mikey says unhelpfully.

Yeah, right. Mikey probably doesn’t know the first thing about actual racing; he’s just a mechanic with a fancy ride. Pete doesn’t need this shit. He’s already got his name in the pool in the Jersey minor leagues.

“She’s done.” Mikey stands up and brushes himself off. There’s a streak of grease along his jaw, which Pete purposefully does not tell him about. “Thirty bucks.”

As he reaches for his wallet, Pete does a double take. “Thirty? That seems low.” Good maintenance never comes that cheap.

“What, do you want it to be sixty?” Mikey’s eyebrow twitches upward, just slightly.

“No,” Pete says quickly, handing over the bills. Mikey pockets them smoothly.

“I didn’t stiff you on service, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, I—” Was totally thinking that. Pete clears his throat. “Thanks.”

Mikey just nods curtly and turns around, and Pete takes it as the dismissal it is.

The Suzuki runs smoother than it ever has on Pete’s ride home.

*

Pete’s never uprooted his life before, and he kind of overestimated how easy it is to make new friends. He misses Chicago like hell. The only person he knows in Jersey is his  _ mom, _ and he can’t even complain to her because she’s too busy with her new job and the divorce and other important adult things.

He calls Patrick to complain to him instead.

“You’re on speaker,” Patrick says instead of hello, and is immediately followed by a chorus of greetings from Joe and Andy.

“How’s Jersey?” Joe’s voice rises to the top.

“Sucks,” Pete says on an exhale. “It’s been a week, and I’m still a fucking loner.”

“It’ll get better once you start racing again,” Patrick says sympathetically. He’s probably right. Hopefully.

“Have you guys been watching the Circuit?” Pete redirects, feeling a little too deep in self-pity even for his taste.

“Dude,” Andy starts, “did you see Exposito and—”

_ “Yes,” _ Pete interrupts.

“Dude!” 

_ “Dude.” _

He hears Patrick laugh at them. “I can’t believe Conrad almost passed Way this morning. That was insane.”

“Shit, I missed that,” Pete says. He was probably unpacking boxes at the time.

“It’ll be on highlights,” Patrick assures him.

“I’ll catch it tonight, then.” Some of the despondence settles back in. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

“Nothing?” Even through the phone, Patrick sounds disappointed. God, he doesn’t need that. 

“Andy, we’ve known Pete Wentz eight years, have you ever seen him with nothing to do on a Friday night?” comes Joe’s voice.

Andy answers, “Never.” Bastards.

“Fuck off.” Pete sighs. He can’t lie to them. Even if he should. “I mean, okay. I was with a mechanic earlier, and he invited me to a race tonight. But I don’t think he really meant it.”

Patrick’s frown is audible. “Why, was he an asshole?”

“Yes,” Pete says, a little too quickly. “No. Kind of. Only as much as I was.”

“Hm.” And Patrick doesn’t say it, thank god, even though they both know what he’s thinking. Pete doesn’t like people who try to have the upper hand with him, who can beat him at his own game. Patrick always tells him he needs the challenge and the ego check, but Patrick says a lot of things.

“He’s just a mechanic,” Pete mutters, no real fire behind it. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be picky,” says Andy.

“Yeah, and maybe you’ll even be able to win in the Jersey leagues, since I’m not there to kick your ass anymore.” Joe cackles, then shouts, “Hey!”

“Did Andy smack him?” Pete asks. 

With a quiet laugh, Patrick says, “Yeah, he did.”

Homesickness twists in Pete like a knife. “I don’t think this thing is Circuit-affiliated.” He circles back just to distract himself. “It’s supposed to be after dark.”

Silence on the other end of the line as they all consider the implications of that. “If it’s not Circuit,” Joe says, “what the hell is it?”

For that, Pete doesn’t have an answer. He curses. He’s going to have to go find out.

*

Pete downshifts as he takes the exit out of Belleville and cruises around the cloverleaf, then speeds up again once he hits the highway. Traffic is sparse, and the edges of the night bleed into the crisp white of his headlight.

It’s a few minutes before he rolls up to the Turnpike’s first toll booth. All three lanes have red Xs blazing above them. He slows to a stop and flips his visor up, unsure of what to do.

Not wanting to go home without trying, he creeps his bike up to the exact change lane and raps on the window of the booth. A guy with dreads pops up and blinks, looking startled like he’d been sleeping. The window slides open. “16E is closed for maintenance,” the dude rasps. “Take the detour.”

“If I was supposed to take the detour, shouldn’t there have been a sign back there?” It comes out argumentative, but Pete thinks he has an actual point.

“No, ‘cause everyone around here already knows to take the detour after dark.” The guy rolls his eyes, then freezes. “‘Cause of the construction.”

Okay, so Pete’s clearly not dealing with a professional here. “I’m not  _ from _ around here, so maybe you should put up a sign.”

The dude squints at him and leans out of the booth a little bit, finally seeming to take in Pete, his motorcycle, and his pissed off expression. “What’s your name, kid?”

Pete bristles. This guy is like, two years older than him, max. “Pete Wentz.”

Recognition dawns on the guy’s face, and for a second hope sparks in Pete, like maybe Chicago isn’t that far from Jersey after all. “You’re Mikey’s boy. Fuck, my bad. Didn’t put it together. The way he described you, I thought you’d be cuter.”

Pete shakes his head and ignores that.  _ Mikey’s boy. _ God, no. He doesn’t even have his own identity here. “What detour am I supposed to take?”

“You’re a little slow to be with Mikey,” the dude says, ducking back into the booth. A moment later, the gate rises. Pete’s eyebrows shoot up despite himself.

“What, it’s here?”

“Maybe get a move on before I change my mind,” the guy says. He only sounds like he’s halfway joking.

Pete revs his engine and takes off before he has to endure another smug look.

*

Pete finds Mikey leaning against an emergency phone booth with his arms crossed, glaring daggers at the guy he’s having a conversation with. His body language is so tense and unwelcoming, if Pete was, well, anyone else, he’d probably fuck off. As is, he parks his bike beside them and takes his helmet off just in time to hear Mikey spit, “Talk to your bookie about it,  _ not _ me.”

“Mikey,” Pete calls over the sound of an engine nearby. “Your boy’s here.”

They both turn to him, and neither of their expressions change. Mikey says, “My boy?”

Pete tilts his chin up. “That’s what the dude at the toll called me.”

Mikey’s stance relaxes, and his eyes dance like he’s holding back a smile. Pete drinks him in: he looks good in his racing gear, chest-hugging jacket and yellow-striped boots making him seem slicker and more dangerous than he had in the garage. “Travie gave you a hard time?”

“I can handle myself.” Pete twists his grip on his dead throttle, like a demonstration.

Mikey looks him up and down with dark eyes that he can’t read in the low light. “Yeah, I bet you can.”

The guy next to Mikey levels his glower at Pete. He’s taller than both of them and at least fifty pounds heavier. Pete isn’t quite stupid enough to not be intimidated, but he tries to keep it off his face. “You mind? We’re in the middle of something here.” God, he’s got the most Jersey accent Pete has ever fucking heard.

“No, we’re not.” Mikey pushes off the phone booth and strides over to Pete. Pete stares at him a little googly-eyed. The guy, who could easily bend them both in half like ragdolls, grumbles and shuffles away at Mikey’s dismissal.

“Who the hell was that?” Pete can’t stop his voice from pitching up.

Mikey just rolls his eyes. “Some asshole who’s mad because I didn’t show up last week, and he’d put money on me.”

“He could have, like, broken every bone in our bodies.”

“Yeah, but then who’s he gonna bet on?” Mikey looks at him sideways, and there’s something conspiratorial there. With a gesture, he tells Pete to scoot forward on his seat, and once he does, Mikey swings a long leg over the Suzuki and settles in behind him. He wraps his arms around Pete’s waist.

Pete leans into Mikey and asks, “Where’s your bike?”

“The starting line,” Mikey says. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

*

Pete’s not used to racing in the dark. That’s why once the flag is waved, all but two racers fly past him in a furious blur. At least that’s what he tells himself. He barely catches a glimpse of Mikey’s yellow Yamaha before it rips past him towards first place like lightning. 

It’s hard to get his bearings with only the aid of headlights on the ground and the moon above. The darkness gives the race an atmosphere Pete’s never felt before; he catches himself accidentally holding his breath and releasing his throttle. He’s afraid to shift up a gear, because going faster just means a nastier collision.

The racer in front of him slows down just enough around a curve that Pete creeps up on them. His jaw clenches as he hits the turn, but he can’t take it at their speed, and he’s forced to fall back before he can pass them.

When the road straightens out again, the rider notices Pete’s approaching headlights and greets him by swerving at him, a loud black Harley coming at him way too fast. Pete’s heart leaps into his throat as he throws on his brakes. His back tire fishtails and he holds on desperately, trying not to eat asphalt. What the fuck was  _ that?  _ People don’t race like that in the minor leagues. That isn’t  _ racing. _ That’s cheap moves and scare tactics.

“Hey!” Pete yells, not that they can hear him. He tries to close in again but gets blocked swiftly. Cursing under his breath, Pete lets out on his throttle and backs off before he gets a faceful of hot metal gears.

Third from last, and he’s stuck. Motherfucker.

Despite Pete’s efforts, nothing changes until the finish line is in sight. Then, the jackass suddenly pulls out all the stops and moves up two places, leaving Pete in the dust.

Pete tries to recover and follow, but it’s too late. 

He crosses the finish line sixteenth out of eighteen. He hasn’t finished in a rank so low since his first month in the Chicago leagues. 

“What the fuck!” As soon as his bike skids to a stop, Pete tears off his helmet and marches over to the black Harley. The rider flips up their visor and meets his glare. Up close, Pete realizes that she’s a woman. 

“The fuck is your problem?” she spits at him. Pete sneers and curls his hands into fists. 

“Sorry, did you think you could run the whole track like an asshole and not get called out for it?”

“Get called out for what? Riding better than you?”

“For  _ cheating.”  _ A crowd has started to form, racers and spectators alike lingering at a distance and watching them with wide eyes. “You can’t box me in like that for so long.”

“Can’t I?” She smiles at him, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. No one gets to look at Pete like that. He feels rage boiling under his skin and he wants to swing, wants to hit someone, preferably this chick off her high horse. “I don’t know where you came from,” she growls, voice like sharp metal, “but this isn’t the fucking Circuit. I can do whatever I want.”

“What, you don’t know how to race, so you just throw dirty tricks? Is that it?” Pete takes a step closer, and she gets off her bike, pulling off her helmet and shoving it into the arms of someone in the crowd. She’s taller than him, Pete realizes. Oh, fuck.

“You’re right.” Her shoulders come up and she raises her fists. Pete’s adrenaline always gets him in so much trouble, holy shit. “I clearly don’t know how to race. I should take notes from you, that way I can come in last.”

“I didn’t fucking come in  _ last.” _ Pete tries to take a step back, but he’s met with a wall of people behind him. God, the one time he doesn’t want an audience. “I—”

All of a sudden, there’s a hand on his shoulder and a body between them. Pete blinks at Mikey.

“Lay off,” Mikey demands, and Pete is about to thank him when he realizes that he’s talking to him. To the girl, he says, “He’s new here and he doesn’t know shit. Let it go.”

“If he’s going to show up here and try to tell  _ me—” _

Mikey cuts her off. “He won’t fuck with you again. I promise.”

Her posture deflates, and she drops her hands. Pete tries not to sigh in relief too audibly. “Next time it’s both of you,” she threatens.

“Yeah, sure.” Mikey grabs Pete by the arm and drags him out through the crowd before he can add a retort. 

Once they’re out of the throng, Pete yanks himself out of Mikey’s grip and scowls. “I didn’t need you to save me.”

Mikey lifts an eyebrow and looks at him point-blank. “You were about to get your ass kicked.”

“I had it under control.”

“You had getting your ass kicked under control?”

“I could take her!” Pete throws a hand up.

“You really fucking couldn’t have.” The way Mikey says it isn’t mean, though; he almost sounds amused. “Just say thank you.”

“Thank you for unnecessarily intervening,” Pete grits out.

“You’re welcome,” Mikey says. “If it means that much to you, though, I can let you get beat to a pulp next time.”

Pete lifts his chin up and looks straight ahead. “That would be great, thanks.”

Mikey just shakes his head at him. “Let’s find your bike and get you home.”

“I think the bloodthirsty mass swallowed it.” The crowd has started to disperse, though, and Pete spots his Suzuki catching a strip of moonlight along its side. After a pause, he asks, “You came in first, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says.

Hm. That’s something to think about.

*

At noon the next day, Pete shows up at Mikey’s house. This time, the garage door is open.

Mikey is in the middle of changing a tire on some old dirt bike. Pete watches as he moves, sweat making the back of his shirt cling over his shoulder blades, before calling out, “Hey.”

Mikey turns around and freezes for a second before he seems to take in Pete’s presence. “Pete. Hi.”

“You busy?”

“Hold this for me.” Mikey thrusts a tire iron at him. Once Pete takes it, Mikey turns back around and ducks to pick up a can of compressed air. 

Pete keeps talking while Mikey works, because, well, he hasn’t told him to fuck off yet. “So I had an idea.”

The pressurized air comes out with a loud  _ whoosh. _ After he’s done with the can, Mikey drops it on the ground, and gravity rolls it towards Pete, who sticks his foot out to stop it before it can escape down the driveway. “It’s a little messy in here,” he notes.

“Do you think I have time to clean?” Mikey holds his hand back out, and Pete takes it as his cue to hand the iron back over.

“. . .No?” Pete ventures.

“No. Because I’m too busy fixing half of this town’s shit.” Mikey drops the tire iron, the  _ clang _ making Pete wince, and stands back up. “Anyway. You had an idea.”

Maybe Pete should feel bad for asking now, but he didn’t ride over here just to turn tail. “I don’t want to lose to a cheating asshole again.”

Mikey crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, I know I backed you up on the Turnpike, but Serena seriously didn’t cheat.”

“Then teach me how to beat her.” Pete smiles, sideways and with too much teeth. “Not just her. Everyone.”

A pause. “You want me to teach you?”

“Yes.”

A tiny smirk spreads across Mikey’s face, languid and disorienting as hell. “You didn’t think I could ride, did you?”

The accusation throws Pete for a loop. “What?” he says, too fast. 

“Yeah. I could see it on your face.” Mikey’s eyes flick up and down Pete, and Pete has to suppress the shiver it causes. “Anyway, sorry dude, but I’ve got too much going on right now.”

“What if I help you out around here?” The words tumble out of Pete’s mouth before his brain can catch up. Well, it’s not the worst idea. “Like, lessen your workload. So you have time to help me.”

Mikey actually stops and considers it, which is more than Pete was expecting. “You’re offering to work for me for free?”

“Not for free.” Pete holds up a finger. The distinction is important. “In exchange for your expertise.”

“My expertise,” Mikey repeats, somehow managing to look smug without moving his face. “Do you have any experience in a garage?”

Oh, shit. Pete darts his gaze left and right. Yeah, he doesn’t know how to put together  _ any _ of the motorcycle parts scattered around haphazardly. But, “I can clean.”

“That would get my mom off my back.” Mikey reaches back and drums his fingers on the handlebar of the dirt bike. The movement brings out the sharp corners of his body, and Pete lets his eyes wander a little bit. “Yeah. You’re hired. Meet me here after school on Monday.”

It takes some willpower to not skip jovially on Pete’s walk back down the driveway.

*

Pete guns it up to the edge of Mikey’s garage on Monday and flips his visor up to hit him with a full-blast smile. Mikey stops what he’s doing with a wrench to say, “Fuck, no.” 

Pete responds by revving his engine obnoxiously. “I’m not teaching you until I can eat off this concrete floor!” Mikey yells over the noise. That makes Pete grin even wider, somehow.

“Fine.” Pete parks his bike and leaves his helmet on the seat, sighing exaggeratedly about it. “Wax on, wax off?”

Cutting him a glance, Mikey says, “This isn’t like that.”

“Why not?” Pete opens the storage containers off to the side of the garage and starts to root around for cleaning supplies. “Also, where do you keep your Windex and shit?”

“Two bins over,” Mikey says, answering the questions in reverse. “And because I’m not teaching you how to fight.”

“You’re teaching me how to win.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but cleaning up my grease stains isn’t going to somehow help you do that.”

“You never know.” Unearthing the bottle, Pete spritzes Windex in Mikey’s direction. Mikey ducks even though he’s already out of range, then scowls and flips Pete off. It’s kind of adorable.

“Try to make sense of my workbench, if you can,” Mikey says finally, then turns around and gets back to the motorcycle he’d been working on.

It’s no easy task, but Pete does manage to add some semblance of organization to Mikey’s bench. After he’s done making all the noise in the world by moving a million metal tools around, though, it’s weirdly quiet in the garage, just the sounds of Mikey working. “You should play music in here,” Pete says.

“I don’t have a speaker,” Mikey says distractedly, not taking his eyes off the engine he’s prodding.

Pete thinks about the way Mikey would look with his skinny hips swaying, or his head bobbing as he hums, and makes a mental note to fix that.

*

He shows up the same time the next day. The garage is closed and Mikey’s already at the edge of the street, leaning against his motorcycle and watching him, his helmet under his arm. Pete smiles automatically.

“I hope you can handle dirt,” is all Mikey says before pulling on his helmet and starting his engine, taking off in the direction opposite of Pete. Pete twists his throttle and follows without a second thought. There’s an X painted on the back of Mikey’s helmet, for whatever reason, and Pete chases it like a target.

They turn left and then ride to the end of the street. There’s an empty lot in between two houses right before the road curves, and Mikey heads straight for the gap, his front tire catching some air as he hops the curb. Pete does the same. 

As he gets closer, he realizes that the dirt lot leads to a wide path shaded overhead by trees. His fingers ghost over his handbrake. He’s not used to off-roading, and he isn’t really eager to go any faster than they are now.

He’s saved from embarrassing himself when Mikey stops at the beginning of the tunnel created by the trees. Pete pulls up beside him. He seems to read Pete’s mind, or maybe just his really obvious face. “If you can pull tricks here, you’ll be able to run the Turnpike backwards.”

“I don’t know.” Pete tries to mask his concern for his health with concern for his bike, gesturing to its engine. “She’s used to the road.”

Mikey doesn’t humor him for a second. “I’ve seen V-twin Suzukis take ice. You’ll be fine, trust me. And if she gets fucked up, I’ll fix her for free.”

Pete bites his lip and tries to come up with another excuse.

“You’ll be fine,” Mikey says again, but this time his tone is different. He’s looking at Pete almost softly. “I promise.”

“If I get fucked up, will you fix me too?” Pete cracks half a cautious grin.

“Yes,” Mikey says. “Being a mechanic is basically the same as being a doctor.” Pete laughs at him, and that puts a sparkle in Mikey’s eyes. “Come on, we’re wasting gas.”

As the trees sway above them and hide them from the world, Mikey shows Pete some Turnpike moves, including the block he’d been victim to. Pete practices with white knuckles and gritted teeth, trying to move the way Mikey somehow does, but really just feels like he’s rotating between oversteering and over-braking and almost throwing himself off his motorcycle.

“You’ve got to  _ relax,” _ Mikey tells him, pulling his bike around in a circle to face Pete. “You move like you and your bike are different things. You shouldn’t be. You’ll just keep fighting each other for control.”

Pete tries to block again and oversteers, nearly leaving the left side of his paint job on a tree trunk.

“Pete.” Mikey’s right in front of him all of a sudden, his Yamaha sideways so it doesn’t get tangled with Pete’s bike, but his hand on top of Pete’s on the grip. “You’re never going to get this if you don’t let go.”

“I  _ can’t,” _ Pete says, resisting the urge to just cut his engine and give up on this shit. Mikey makes it look so  _ easy,  _ but Pete’s pretty sure he’s going to ruin his gears before he makes any progress. “I’m on top of a few hundred pounds of metal that could kill me if I’m stupid. I don’t  _ get _ to let go.”

Mikey looks at him for a long moment. “Where’d you learn that?”

The question makes Pete think back, and suddenly he’s fourteen again in a mandatory safety course, chewing on a pencil and struggling to pay attention. “In the Circuit minor leagues.”

Mikey nods like he’d been expecting that. “Forget all of that. You know how to keep yourself from getting hurt, so stop being so afraid of your motorcycle.” He waves a hand and gets out of the way so Pete can go again.

It takes a conscious effort to wring out the tension from his body, but Pete breathes until his shoulders drop, his arms relax, and even his fingers feel loose. It takes a minute, but once he’s ready, he shifts into gear and swings into the block move. Automatically, his muscles try to seize, but he fights through it and holds. It feels better. It feels  _ good. _

“Not bad,” Mikey calls. “Do it again.”

Pete exhales and lines up.

*

It’s twilight when Pete finally gets home, and his mom looks at him curiously as he wanders into the kitchen. They seem equally surprised to see each other. “Hey, helmet hair. League practice?”

“No, just riding around with a friend.” It’s technically not a lie. Pete isn’t sure how she’d feel about where he’d actually been, and what he’s been getting up to on the Turnpike. And if nothing else, it’s an easier explanation. “You’re home early.”

“I had to meet the lawyer here to go over some forms,” she says nonchalantly, definitely trying to slip it under the radar, but Pete still winces. “Your dad — he isn’t making this easy on me.”

“I know.” And that’s all Pete says, because the less they talk about the divorce, the better.

“Anyway.” His mom shakes her head, smiling self-deprecatingly. “You were out riding? You made a friend?”

God, that makes Pete sound so pathetic, it’s almost funny. “I don’t know him that well yet,” Pete answers vaguely. “We pretty much just met. He’s a way better racer than me.”

“Is he also in the league?” Pete purposefully doesn’t answer that, just lets her keep talking. “Maybe they teach differently here. You’ll catch up.” She comes over and kisses his forehead. He squirms but ultimately lets her, because, whatever, he doesn’t get to see her that much. “What should we heat up for dinner?”

“Mac and cheese,” Pete says automatically, and his mom nods. She opens the freezer to hunt for Stouffer’s, and Pete takes the opportunity to fix his stupid hair in the reflection of the microwave.

They eat together in the living room because they don’t have a kitchen table yet. Pete eyes all the cardboard boxes on the floor as he shovels macaroni with his spoon, and he tries to imagine this place becoming a home.

*

He and Mikey alternate days between Mikey’s garage and the dirt lot. Pete actually does remember to bring his speaker, so he sets it up in the middle of the garage, and the music orbits them as they work around one another quietly. Pete keeps an eye on Mikey to see what songs make him tap his fingers and hum along, taking notes on what he likes and tailoring his playlists accordingly. He’s yet to find anything that will make Mikey dance, but he’s working on it.

On their motorcycles the next day, Mikey pushes Pete harder, making him work on his turns until Pete is pretty sure his hands are blistering through his gloves. He thought he was good at turns — they’ve won him points before — but he’s nowhere near Mikey’s level.

“Tighter,” Mikey demands after Pete’s bike squeals to a halt in front of him.

“It’s harder.” Pete’s arms are exhausted from holding on. He wants to give up and go lay in a cold, dark room for a few hours. “In the dirt. It could throw me.”

“It’s still got grip. Lean into it, you won’t fall.” When Pete just looks at him blankly, Mikey furrows his brows for a moment, then slides forward in his seat. “Park over there.” He gestures to the line of trees. “And get on.”

“What?” Pete asks, even as he’s already moving his bike and turning off his engine.

“You need to feel what it’s like, or you’ll never hit the mark.” Mikey pats the space behind him impatiently. “Trust me. It’ll help.”

Hopping on, Pete wraps his arms around Mikey’s waist. He’s done this before, but suddenly he can’t remember what to do with his hands, and he worries that he’s holding on too tight or too loose. “You can handle it with two people?” he asks hastily.

Mikey lets out a little snort of laughter. Pete’s fingers dig into his waist involuntarily. “I can handle it with my eyes closed. Ready?”

“Yeah,” Pete says to the back of Mikey’s helmet, hoping he sounds convincing.

“Pay attention to the gravity,” Mikey advises, then snaps his visor down. He twists the throttle, and they accelerate. Pete hangs on for dear life as they hit the curve; distinctly, he feels the point at which he would normally straighten out like a tug in his stomach, but Mikey doesn’t relent. Pete holds his breath as he comes to terms with the fact that this is it, they’re going to crash and eat dirt.

Except somehow, miraculously, unbelievably, Mikey pulls them out of the turn, still hugging the inner side of the path. 

He brakes and pulls his helmet off, tossing it to the ground. He swings a leg over the bike to turn sideways and face Pete. The left side of his mouth is just barely lifting, but Pete can see the excitement all over him, around his eyes and in his finally-relaxed posture.

Mikey gives him this warm, open look, and Pete just knows. He knows what they both want. He throws his helmet to the ground, too, and kisses him.

Mikey makes a noise in his throat and leans into it, kissing back. Electricity zings all the way down to Pete’s toes. Waving a hand pointlessly, Pete tries to explain, “Adrenaline,” against Mikey’s lips, but it comes out muffled and indistinct. Mikey just grabs the flailing hand and pulls it to wrap around the back of his own neck.

Tugging at Mikey’s waist, Pete tries to bring him closer, but he forgets about the balancing act they’ve got going on, and both their eyes go wide as the Yamaha wobbles and starts to tip. They break apart and frantically re-stabilize. Maybe not the best make out spot.

Pete looks over at Mikey. Pink creeps up his neck and his lips are slightly parted. The sight goes straight to Pete’s gut.

“Turnpike race tomorrow night,” Mikey says, voice a little breathier than usual. “You’ll be there?”

“Duh,” Pete says, and kisses him again for good measure.

*

Racing at night is still strange, but Pete leans harder into his turns and doesn’t flinch when he’s swerved at. He manages to scrape his way into eleventh place. Not worth bragging about to Joe and Andy, but it’s an improvement.

Mikey finds him after the race. His hair is all fucked up, and Pete wants to sink his fingers into it. He smirks and waits until Mikey’s in earshot. “Hey, first place.”

“Second, actually.” Mikey holds up two fingers, and Pete’s eyes widen.

“What happened?”

“I let the guy behind me win so I could fuck up some people’s bets.” A sly grin graces Mikey’s face. Pete can’t believe him. “What? I’m not their racehorse.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Without much thought, Pete reaches forward and takes Mikey’s hand. “What’re you doing now? Victory party?”

“We don’t really have those here. There’d be too many fights.”

Pete hums. That’s logical. He’d know. “Going home, then?”

“I think so.” Mikey laces his fingers together with Pete’s. “You can come with.”

That’s what Pete had been hoping to hear. But he still has to say, “I have curfew at midnight.”

“That’s an hour from now,” Mikey dismisses. Hands clamped together, he pulls Pete along, walking backwards towards their bikes. Pete doesn’t have it in him to resist, not that he wants to.

They ride back to Mikey’s house significantly faster than the speed limit encourages, still hopped up on adrenaline and the nighttime. Pete leans against Mikey as he puts in the garage code to get them in through the side door, and as soon as its hinges creak open, Pete gets his hands on him and drags them both inside. It’s dark, but Mikey flips a lightswitch on their way in and the space brightens. 

“Hi,” Pete says lowly, walking backwards so he can kiss Mikey. “Tell me if I’m about to run into anything.”

“Funnier to watch you fall,” Mikey mumbles against his mouth. Pete bites his lip in retaliation.

They make it to the workbench without bodily injury, where Mikey crowds him in and kisses him intensely. Taking the hint, Pete hops up on the table and spreads his thighs so Mikey can press up against him. Pete crosses his ankles behind the small of his back and opens his mouth up, and it’s so fucking good, the hot slide of lips and teeth and tongue.

“I like you,” Pete says, his brain apparently having checked out and wandered off. “I like you, Mikey.”

Mikey’s fingers, which were pressing bruises into Pete’s hips, dip under his waistline. The closeness of the touch makes Pete hot all over, and he’s going to be hard in a minute if he doesn’t watch himself. “What time is it?” he breathes out.

Taking one of his hands off Pete, Mikey checks his phone. “Fifteen til.”

“Shit.” Pete drops his legs where they’d been holding Mikey against him. “That’s later than I thought. I should go.”

“You can’t push curfew?” As he says it, though, Mikey lets go of Pete.

Pete thinks about it for a second. Back home, he probably would’ve stayed out without a second thought. But now — his mom’s dealing with so much shit, it’s not even about not pissing her off, he just doesn’t want her to  _ worry. _ “No, I can’t, I. . .” He shoves himself off of the table. “My family’s got a lot going on right now, I can't be another problem.”

“Oh.” Mikey looks at him with an unreadable expression. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, just.” Pete shrugs jerkily, unsure why he’s even saying so much in the first place. Mikey just seems to pull words out of him. “People don’t move eight hundred miles for no reason.”

“I know,” Mikey says. “Family can be hard.” The way he says it is so somber, Pete actually believes him. A beat passes, then Mikey makes Pete jump by reaching around him and grabbing his phone out of his back pocket. “I’m giving you my number so you can text me when you get home safe.”

“Okay,” Pete says. He feels Mikey slip the phone back and ghost his fingers over his waist. They stay like that for just another moment, and then Pete really has to go.

He narrowly avoids running a red light in his hurry to get home, but he makes it. His mom is already asleep. He texts Mikey,  _ home safe, _ and gets back a simple,  _ good. _

*

“Yeah, Trick, I really — yeah, I do.”

“It’s not just a sex thing?” Even over the phone, Pete can practically see Patrick’s suspicious squint.

Pete smiles and makes his voice lewd. “Not yet.”

_ “Pete.” _

“I was joking, god. You knew that.” Pete rolls his eyes to himself. “It’s not — when I push, he doesn’t bend for me. He pushes back. I like that. I need that.”

Silence. “Since when did you start taking my advice?”

Pete rubs a hand over his face. He knew that was coming. “Since you started being right.”

“He makes you better,” Patrick says, not a question.

On an exhale, Pete says, “I think he could.”

“Then don’t let him go.” The line crackles. “Tell him how you feel before you come back to Chicago.”

“It seems, like.” Pete tries to find a more decisive word, but really, it’s just, “Fast. To be feeling this much and wanting this much already.”

“Yeah? So what? You live for fast.”

“God.” Shaking his head, Pete says, “How the fuck do you always know?”

*

For easily-sidetracked Pete, it’s even more of a struggle than usual to stay on task at the garage the next week. He’s scrubbing the gunk off a rim so that Mikey can attach it to a motorcycle, but it seems like every five minutes he’s looking over his shoulder, unable to keep his eyes off of him.

Mikey’s grown increasingly frustrated over the past half hour from wrangling an uncooperative brake line; Pete can tell from the tense set of his shoulders and his inventive cursing. “Maybe you should take a break,” Pete suggests after Mikey finishes insulting the bike’s mother.

“I have three more things to fix on this bike before I’m done.” Mikey jerks his chin towards the rim Pete is holding. “Including that.”

“And how productive you will be, steaming from the ears.” Putting down the metal and his scrubbing brush, Pete walks over to where Mikey is crouching and leans down to kiss the top of his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mikey’s hands stop toiling on the brakes as Pete touches him.

“You’re just going to break something, idiot.” Slowly, Pete runs a finger down the side of Mikey’s neck. Mikey leans back against him, a gentle pressure on Pete’s lower stomach. “Step away for a minute. Let me distract you.”

“I have to finish this by the end of the day.”

“I’ll be fast.”

“You’re going to get grease on my dick,” Mikey bemoans, and the abruptness of it shocks a laugh out of Pete.

He holds his hands in front of Mikey’s face where he can see them. There’s a streak of grease on his wrist, but other than that, he’s clean. “Not that I’m going to use my hands, anyway,” he murmurs.

A sharp intake of breath, and Mikey nods. That’s all Pete needs. He asks, “Who’s home?”

“No one,” Mikey says. “But go close the garage door, fuck. I have neighbors.”

Pete does, and he swears it immediately gets hotter inside, even though there’s no way it could insulate so fast. When he gets back, Mikey is leaning against the workbench, arms taut as he holds onto the edge. His belt is unbuckled.

“I wanted to do that,” Pete says, tucking his fingers into Mikey’s waistband and leaning up to kiss him. Mikey kisses him back hot and open, no more hesitation. Pete sucks on his lip and Mikey pulls them flush together; in the back of his head, Pete counts the layers between them — shirts, jeans, underwear. So little and so much.

Mikey nips at the skin under Pete’s jaw, and Pete’s head falls forward onto Mikey’s shoulder as he groans. “You promised me fast,” Mikey says, hot breath right next to Pete’s ear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete says, lifting his head up and undoing the button on Mikey’s pants with one hand. His blood is thrumming through him, and he feels unsteady, adrenaline-buzzed, like the same gravity that pulled him and Mikey into a turn a few days ago is pulling Pete down to his knees now.

“Fuck,” Mikey tells the ceiling as Pete shapes him through denim. Pete really, desperately wants to take his time here, see how many more curses he can get out of Mikey before they’re even skin-to-skin, but that’ll have to wait until another time. As for right now, he drags down Mikey’s jeans and underwear in one go. He’s silently thrilled to find Mikey already hard and flushed, waiting for him.

Pete pumps him twice and licks the tip, feeling Mikey shudder. It’s glorious. Pete does it again, unable to help himself, but Mikey threads a hand into his hair and pulls. “Pete,” is all he says, voice breaking.

Pete sinks down on him all at once and Mikey gasps, his hips stuttering forward before freezing. Running his tongue over the thick underside to pull off, Pete says, “You can do it.” Mikey looks down at him with dark eyes, and fuck, he’s so hot. Pete nods. “Fuck my mouth.”

Apparently that’s all the encouragement Mikey needs. He holds Pete by the back of his head as he thrusts into his mouth, and Pete just takes it, the stretch of his jaw and the noises Mikey’s making turning him on so hard that he has to reach down and press a palm against himself.

“Jesus Christ,” Mikey pants, his hips losing rhythm. Pete sucks harder, and it’s no time at all until Mikey’s thighs tremble and he comes down Pete’s throat. “Oh my god,” he says, and Pete watches as he collapses back against the workbench, face pink and lips parted.

The sight of it, Pete can’t take it anymore. He undoes his jeans and gets a hand around himself, stroking fast and coming on the floor moments later. Gasping, he slumps forward until his face presses against Mikey’s hip. He feels fucked-out, amazing, and his jaw still burns.

“Less stressed?” he asks Mikey’s hip.

Mikey hums in confirmation. “Are you—” He looks down and laughs sharply. “Oh, sorry.”

“Couldn’t wait.” Nuzzling Mikey’s hip, he assures him, “It was good.”

“Good,” Mikey says. His face gives way to a slight smile. “You realize that you’re going to have to—”

Pete rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll clean that up too.”

*

The next day at the dirt lot, they do speed drills, Mikey making Pete push until he’s sure either his engine or tires or self will give out. Mikey makes it up to him, though, tuning up his engine for free once they’re in the garage again.

Unable to stay still but out of cleaning tasks to busy himself with, Pete sits up on the workbench and kicks his feet. He alternates between watching Mikey work and watching the boxy TV behind him. For the first time, Mikey's asked him not to play music, because he’s actually unmuted it.

“Why do you keep the Circuit on if you hate it?” Something metallic clangs on the workbench as Pete’s heels swing in. “You’ve had it on for practically the entire length of the tour. Do you not get other channels?”

“I don’t hate it,” Mikey says passively. “Do you have a problem with listening to it?”

“No, dude, I watch it all the time. My friends are obsessed with it.” Pete pauses, bittersweet for a moment as he thinks of them. Holing up in Andy’s basement to watch the race, all four of them unblinking and entranced. Then, once they got into the minor leagues, watching reruns in slow-mo and talking over each other as they try to deconstruct every move. “It’s been our dream to race on it since we were like, eleven.”

“Why don’t you?”

Pete stares, waiting for Mikey to laugh, but his serious expression doesn’t crack. “I’m way too young.”

Mikey shakes his head. “There’s been younger.”

Pete scoffs. Yeah, he knows that. The day he’d watched sixteen-year-old Gerard Way tear across the fourth tour finish line had shaken up his life and the lives of practically everyone in the leagues, but he’s not  _ Gerard Way. _ He’s Pete. He’s just Pete.

“You know I’m not that good.” Mikey doesn’t try to deny it, which bruises Pete’s ego a little, even though it’s the truth. “Why don’t  _ you _ race?”

For a long moment, the only sound in the garage is metal-on-metal and the staticky TV. “I don’t need to,” Mikey says finally. “I don’t need the money, or the glory, or any of that.”

“What about the thrill?” Even if he’s too zen for material possessions or whatever, the way Mikey races, Pete doesn’t see how he could turn down the challenge.

Mikey lifts a shoulder and drops it resolutely. “Doesn’t seem like it’s all it’s cracked up to be.”

That hardly even processes for Pete. He’s spent his whole life grasping for more, trying to ride fast enough and clamor loud enough to maybe get somewhere with his life. He wills Mikey’s gaze up to meet his. When Mikey’s eyes finally flick over, it’s like a twelve volt battery down Pete’s spine.

“What?” Mikey asks.

“I don’t get you at all,” Pete says. “I like it so much.”

*

It’s time to talk about the elephant, Pete knows that. He has to bring it up before he leaves Jersey. He just really, really doesn’t want to. 

Even more, though, he doesn’t want to come back to find someone else in Mikey’s garage.

He tries to corner Mikey before the Turnpike race, but Mikey gets dragged away by someone who needs an emergency diagnosis on why their brakes aren’t working before Pete can string together a sentence. And once fifteen lined-up engines are rumbling like an earthquake, there’s no way Pete can get a word in.

He kicks his own engine to life and pushes it out of his mind, focusing on the track instead. The moon is dimmer tonight, but Pete is more attuned to the darkness now, more confident in the space beyond what his headlight gives him. His fingers flex in his gloves.

The flag raises. Next to him, out of the corner of his eye, Pete sees Mikey nod.

The flag drops, and the starting line explodes.

Mikey passes him and everyone else immediately, but Pete keeps his focus on the middle of the pack, weaving into the spot behind another Suzuki and trying to hold. He feels a speed underneath himself that’s almost scary, power that would be terrifying if Mikey hadn’t made him practice it a hundred times. The effect is even more profound on real road, where Pete’s tires practically glide.

The racer in front of him falters, and Pete overtakes him, sliding into what he’s pretty sure is the top half of the ranks. Another opportunity opens up as the road curves. Pete pours what he’s got into his throttle as the bike in front of him slows down for the turn. He feels his front tire start to wobble and almost loses his grip, but he bears down until he makes it around the bend. The figure behind him fades into the background, and Pete lets out a deep breath.

He pulls up nearly parallel to a black Harley he recognizes. Pete’s throat goes dry, and his muscles seize in panic. 

He automatically starts flipping through his mental list of tight-gripped maneuvers from the minor leagues, trying to figure something out before she notices him. But then he hears Mikey’s voice in his head.  _ Let go. _

He does. He forces himself to relax from his pinky finger to his big toe, thinking about his friends’ voices on the phone and humming in the garage and kissing Mikey.

When she notices him and swerves, Pete is ready. He anticipates it and bursts forward instead of dodging. She can’t catch him once she’s committed to the maneuver. The sound of her engine fades away as he flies ahead.

He crosses the finish line in sixth place, and he’s damn proud of it.

*

“Can we talk about something?” Pete starts as the side door to the garage closes behind them. It’s dark for a moment until Mikey hits the lightswitch. The sudden illumination looks beautiful on him.

“Half an hour until your curfew,” Mikey says, leaning down to kiss Pete soundly. “We can do whatever you want.”

The suggestion behind that makes Pete’s train of thought derail for a second. He balls up the fabric of Mikey’s shirt, hands gripping underneath his unzipped jacket, and Mikey looks down at him with half-lidded eyes. “I’m going back to Chicago,” Pete blurts out.

Mikey goes still. “What?”

“My dad and siblings are still back there,” Pete explains quickly. “It’ll screw my mom over in the custody battle if I don’t visit every few weeks.”

“Visiting.” Mikey seems to exhale with his whole body. “Okay, lead with that next time.”

“Yeah. Only for a couple of weeks,” Pete says. He draws a breath. “But I’m, like, leaving tomorrow. Well, Sunday morning, but my flight’s really early.”

“Tomorrow’s the last leg of the Circuit,” Mikey says, looking over his shoulder at the TV in the corner of the garage, which is on as always but muted. Pete doesn’t really know what that has to do with anything, but it’s true. “You should come over before you leave and watch it with me.”

Pete stares. “What?”

“I want to watch the end with you,” Mikey says.

“I get that, dude.” Pete flattens his hands against Mikey’s chest. “But  _ why?” _

The Mikey Pete knows never shows fear, never looks nervous, but now Mikey’s jaw is set, and he’s avoiding Pete’s eyes. “Don’t be weird about this,” he says. 

“Weird about  _ what?” _

“I think my brother’s going to win.”

Pete blinks. Blinks again. The words don’t start to make any more sense.

“My brother,” Mikey repeats. “Gerard Way.”

Pete’s eyebrows nearly fly off his face. “Your brother is  _ Gerard Way?” _

“Yeah.” The fucking craziest thing of all is that Mikey breaks into a tiny smile.

“You mean—” What the fuck. Anyone who has so much as  _ touched _ a motorcycle knows who Gerard Way is. He’s a legend. He’s an icon. He’s the goddamn face of the Circuit. Pete had his poster in his bedroom before he moved. “Your  _ brother? _ Dude, why the fuck were you keeping that a secret? I’d start  _ every _ conversation with that.”

Mikey’s grin dampens. “Why? I’m my own person.”

Oh, shit. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just — that’s fucking insane, you have to realize that.” Fuck, he should have stopped talking. He clamps his mouth shut belatedly.

“I know.” Mikey wraps a hand around Pete’s wrist, not pulling him off, but holding on. “I just need people to see me as me.”

“I do,” Pete promises, tilting his head up to kiss the corner of Mikey’s mouth. “I get it.” He doesn’t, really, but he thinks he could.

Mikey’s lips turn up where Pete’s had been. “Come watch with me tomorrow.”

“I will,” Pete says. He tries the new information out on his tongue: “Mikey  _ Way.” _

“Fuck off,” Mikey says, and kisses him to shut him up.

*

They sit in fold-out chairs in the garage and watch the pixelated TV as the last leg airs. At one point, Mikey disappears in the house to record the broadcast for his parents, so Pete suspects there is a much nicer TV and comfier furniture inside, but Pete isn’t going to ask about it, isn’t going to drag Mikey out of his space. Besides, with the garage door open, he can turn his head and see the sun falling and becoming gold. It makes up for how numb his butt gets after sitting for two hours.

As cameras follow Gerard Way and Suzy Exposito down the exit ramp towards New York City, Suzy trailing Gerard closely, Mikey grabs Pete’s hand and holds it tight between his own. He squeezes hard enough to hurt, but Pete doesn’t pull away.

Gerard and Suzy blaze into Times Square, where they start the final sprint. Gerard’s got the same fearless power that Pete sees in Mikey, and it’s enthralling, even better now that Pete knows where it comes from.

The last meters approach, and Pete and Mikey hold their breath, eyes wide.

In a blur of speed, Gerard crosses the finish line and wins.

Pete shouts, and the crowd roars so loudly that the TV’s speakers crackle. Next to Pete, though, Mikey is silent. He just watches with a small smile on his face as the gold medallion is bestowed on Gerard.

Pete looks at him, and he recognizes the shadow in his eyes. He knows what it’s like to miss people. “When are you going to see him next?” 

Slowly, Mikey drags his thumb across Pete’s palm, then speaks. “He’ll visit for a few days while he’s nearby, but he said he’s going to stay in LA for a while after that. Maybe even the whole year. I’ll go out there eventually and help him train.”

A tiny piece of Pete is disappointed that he’ll be catching a flight out of Jersey just as  _ Gerard Way _ is coming into town, but he ignores it and focuses on being glad that Mikey will get to see him. It’s hell, being away from the people who are a part of you.

“Hey,” Pete says quietly. “You know that when I come back, I still want this.”

That drags Mikey’s eyes away from the screen. He looks curiously at Pete.

“When I get back from Chicago,” Pete clarifies, “I still want to be with you.”

The confusion doesn’t leave Mikey’s face. “Yeah. What else would we do?”

All of Pete’s overthinking screeches to a halt. “Really?” he asks, but kisses Mikey before he can get an answer.

“What did you think this was?” Mikey says, smiling against his mouth. Pete doesn’t even have an answer, he’s just happy.

“You’ll be here when I get back,” Pete pulls away to say, both confirming and convincing himself. He wants to go back home, to see Patrick and Joe and Andy and show them all his new moves, but he wants to bundle up this spark he has with Mikey and take it with him. He wants to take Mikey with him everywhere.

“Yes,” Mikey says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He rests his forehead against Pete’s. On the TV, the crowd is still cheering, and for a second Pete pretends it’s for them. “I’ll be here. You know where to find me.”


End file.
